The sky hung heavy with the weight of dawn, smeared with ash-grey clouds that mirrored the gloom lingering over the deck. A low mist rolled across the wooden planks, softening the bloodstains but not the memory of violence. The sea, normally a rhythmic companion, lapped in uneasy silence against the hull—its pulse out of sync with the hearts that beat aboard.

  Under the captain’s watchful eye, the sailors moved like ghosts, shoulders bowed not just from exhaustion but from grief, their footsteps muffled by the dew-soaked deck. The clink of chains and scrape of cloth were the only sounds, each movement methodical, reverent. They wrapped the dead in sailcloth and tied them with ropes dyed crimson by the fight. Some whispered prayers in hoarse, breaking voices; others said nothing, their eyes glassy and fixed somewhere far away.

  Near the stern, a grizzled boatswain knelt beside a fallen youth. He paused, hand resting briefly on the boy's chest as though to still the bleeding that no longer flowed. His jaw tightened as he wrapped the body, voice cracked and low. “Safe winds, Tarrek. You were brave.”

  Nearby, another man wept silently as he folded a friend’s arms across his chest, fingers trembling with each knot he tied. As the sea embraced the bodies, there were no wails, no grand speeches—just a weighted silence as each form slipped into the water and disappeared beneath the waves.

  The dead patrons, however, received a different fate. They, too, were wrapped, but their bodies were set aside, bound by protocol to be delivered to the clerks at the harbour The pirates’ dead, however, were given no such ceremony—they were unceremoniously dragged into the bowels of the ship, out of sight and out of mind.

  The captain stood motionless amidst the grim work, his back straight but his expression hollow. Pain radiated through his body with every breath, every shift of weight. The bruises from the orc’s massive blows throbbed dully, and his left arm had gone nearly numb. But it was not his injuries that twisted his expression into something raw and unguarded. It was the sight of his men—motionless, lifeless, irrevocably gone. Guilt gnawed at him. He clenched his fists, the fire of anger and despair rising in his chest. His gaze lingered on the bloodstained deck where he’d faced the orc , as the image of the beast towering over him, unstoppable, haunted his thoughts. If it weren’t for the elf, he might have joined his crew in the sea’s cold embrace. For all his experience, for all his years of service, he had been utterly powerless. It was a truth that cut deeper than any wound.

  ---

  Oblivious to the sombre proceedings, Zyren remained unconscious in his quarters. The ship reached the port by mid-morning, the bustling docks a sharp contrast to the ship’s grim silence. The captain gave strict orders to leave the elf undisturbed until the cargo and patrons had disembarked. When the last caravan rolled out and the ship emptied, the captain finally made his way to the elf’s room.

  Zyren stirred for the first time in hours, the world around him a hazy blur as he opened his eyes. His body felt heavy, as if every muscle had been replaced with stone. His first thought was confusion—the ceiling above him wasn’t the cramped one of the shared cabin. Instead, he found himself in a larger, finely decorated room, the furniture ornate but understated, as though it belonged to someone accustomed to commanding respect. His head throbbed, and every movement reminded him of the ferocity of the battle.

  The soft creak of the door broke his reverie. The captain entered, his posture slightly hunched, betraying the pain he tried so hard to conceal. His steps were measured, and his voice was low as he spoke. “How are you feeling?”

  Zyren sat up slowly, wincing at the effort. “Everything hurts,” he admitted, his voice hoarse. A sharp ache pulsed through his ribs, but he pushed past it. His dark fingers brushed the back of his head as he looked around. “Where…? Did we make it to land?”

  The captain managed a tired smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yes, we’ve reached our destination. Thanks to you.” He stepped closer, placing a firm but careful hand on Zyren’s shoulder. "You saved my crew—what’s left of them, anyway. We owe you our gratitude."

  Zyren’s lips quirked into a faint smile, he shifted uncomfortably under the weight of the praise. “I just… tried to help.”

  “You did far more than that,” the captain replied. His gaze lingered on the elf for a moment before he straightened. “Rest as long as you need. The ship isn’t going anywhere for a while—there’s too much to fix, and too many men to replace.” He hesitated halfway to the door, as if weighing his words. “Are you sure you don’t want to join the navy? We could use someone like you.”

  Zyren smiled politely and shook his head. “I’m sure.”

  ---

  The sun had nearly set by the time Zyren felt strong enough to leave. Despite his lingering pain, he found himself eager to stretch his legs on solid ground. Two sailors escorted him to the harbour, carrying his belongings and thanking him profusely, handed him a small bag of coins. “From the crew,” one said with a nod. “You’ve earned it.”

  Alone now, Zyren pocketed the bag and surveyed the bustling port town. Nestled between jagged coastal cliffs and dense forest, it was smaller than he had expected. Damaged walls encircled it, old and smoky banners flew proudly above fortified gates. It was a patchwork of squat stone buildings and wood-framed homes, clearly expanded over time rather than designed with order. The scent of salt and smoke mingled in the air, and gulls wheeled overhead, their cries lost among the shouts of merchants and the creak of ropes along the piers.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  To his surprise, there was little of the orderliness he’d expected—no long lines of clerks, no grand buildings to oversee arrivals. Instead, the harbour was lively but strangely informal, with clerks busy managing caravans and merchants shouting over one another. It lacked the rigidity of the human city from where he departed, and the chaos brought an odd sense of relief. The town's infrastructure suggested resilience, not conquest; it was clear the humans had claimed only what they could defend, and the wilderness beyond remained untamed, its borders uneasy. The forest pressed close on the inland side, dark and whispering with unseen life.

  This was not a stronghold. It was an outpost, one tide away from being swallowed.

  As he wandered, a blacksmith’s shop caught his eye, the rhythmic clang of hammer against metal drawing him closer. The sight stirred a memory of a dwarf who had once taught him the basics of weapon care in his parents’ tavern. Deciding not to waste the opportunity, Zyren stepped inside.

  The smith, an older man with a barrel chest and arms like iron beams, greeted him with a stern nod. His initial demeanour was cold, but as Zyren carefully unwrapped his blades and asked for maintenance, the man’s expression softened. He grunted approvingly. “Rare to see someone take proper care of their weapons,” he remarked with a faint smile, running a practiced hand along the edge of the blade. “I’ll sharpen these up for you.” Looking at his weapons in the smiths hands, Zyren remembered that one of his daggers was missing, as he had thrown it at the orc, before fainting. “I also need a new dagger to complete the set.” He asked pointing at both holsters in his chest. “I can craft a replacement. Come back in the morning.” The smith replied, still looking at the weapons. “All your weapons will be ready then.”

  Thanking him, Zyren left the forge, his thoughts drifted to his parents—Faelar and Sylvaen. The taste of honeyed elven mead came to mind, pulling a faint smile from his lips and wandered to the nearest tavern, hoping to enjoy a drink in their honour.

  He entered the tavern, the warmth of the fire and the chatter of patrons enveloping him. With a smile, he ordered his drink, savouring the sweet taste of home.

  “What are you drinking?” a voice asked beside him.

  Zyren glanced at the speaker, a tall, lean woman with sharp eyes and a confident posture. Her dark leather armour was well-worn, and a bow rested on her back.

  “Mead,” Zyren replied, studying her with cautious curiosity. “Something to remember home.”

  She smirked, her expression unreadable. “Home, huh? Would take a lot more than a drink to do that for me.”

  Zyren gave a short laugh. “Been away long?”

  “Long enough to forget if I ever really had one,” she said, her voice softening before she took a sip of her own drink.

  There was a pause, one not filled by small talk, but by mutual understanding.

  “Zyren,” he offered, extending a hand.

  “Kaelith.” Her grip was firm, her calloused hand betraying years of experience. “What brings you to this little corner of the world?”

  “I’m… not sure, to be honest,” he admitted. “I grew up hearing stories of the world beyond, and I guess I wanted to see it for myself.”

  Kaelith tilted her head, her smirk softening into something more genuine. “Stories always favour their tellers,” she said.

  “And you?” Zyren asked.

  She glanced at the firelight, her face briefly reflective. “You can earn gold for information from the other side of the walls. I gather what I can—tracks, movement, dangers—and trade it for coin.” She finished her drink with a practiced ease. “It’s… a living.”

  Zyren adjusted in his seat, the pain in his body flaring again. Kaelith noticed, her sharp gaze flicking to his face. “I’m surprised you’re out and about already,” she remarked.

  “What do you mean?” Zyren asked.

  “I saw you fighting that orc.” She turned fully toward him, her expression serious now. “You held your own. Better than most.”

  “You were there?” he asked, surprised.

  She shrugged. “Never left my room. Pirates are the sailors’ problem, not mine. I don’t get paid to fight their battles.”

  Zyren frowned. “What if they’d taken the ship?”

  Kaelith smirked again. “You’ve got a lot to learn. Pirates don’t care about travellers like me—or you, for that matter. Still, you were impressive. You didn’t freeze. You didn’t hesitate. That orc would’ve torn the ship apart, but you faced him down like you’d done it before.”

  Before he could reply, his body betrayed him. The pain from his injuries flared again, and he adjusted in his chair with a strained expression. “I didn’t win.”

  “You lived.” She set her mug down. “You learned. That’s better than half the sellswords in this town.”

  Zyren met her eyes, uncertain. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Listen,” she said, her tone shifting. “I’ll get straight to the point.” She waved at the barkeep, passing him a few coins. “I need someone who doesn’t get killed at the first sign of trouble,” she said bluntly. “I work alone. Usually. But the deeper I go, the more dangerous things get. I need someone to watch my back, someone smart and capable.”

  The barkeep returned and placed two in front of her. Kaelith handed one to Zyren. “You said it yourself, you’ve got no plans, and I’ve got the coin to make it worth your while.”

  He hesitated. “You don’t even know me.”

  “No,” she admitted, “but I know the type. And I know you fought when no one else would. That counts for something.”

  She stood, her confidence unwavering. “I’m staying upstairs. You’ve got a room next door. Think it over. We leave in two days, maybe less. I’m offering coin, safety in numbers, and the kind of trouble worth writing home about—if you ever do.”

  Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked toward the stairs. “Sleep on it.”

  ---

  As he climbed the outside stairs to the inn, he spotted the captain in the street below, speaking to two merchants. In the dim light, their features seemed familiar—Vyrrin, perhaps? But Zyren’s body screamed for rest, and he let the thought pass.

  Reaching his room, he placed the key into the lock and entered. The bed was simple, but after the long day, it felt like the most luxurious thing in the world. He collapsed onto it, Kaelith’s offer echoing in his mind as sleep claimed him.

  She hadn’t tried to flatter him. She didn’t pretend to be noble. But there was honesty in her pitch—and she hadn’t just seen a swordsman. She’d seen someone trying to prove he wasn’t helpless. Someone like her.

  She was confident, yes. Skilled, likely. But there were too many unknowns. Too many shadows in her story. Yet he couldn’t deny the pull of her words—the promise of something real in a world that, so far, had offered little more than chaos and loss.

  The island was wild. Dangerous. And she knew it better than he did.

  He lay back on the mattress, staring at the ceiling as sleep crept in around the edges of his mind.

  Still… could he trust her?